


Red

by bonoffee



Category: U2
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:56:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonoffee/pseuds/bonoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dark and angsty product of my rather bizarre mind with some twisted!Edge for good measure.<br/>I must thank leogryffin, susie_sue and lostmyillusions for their support on this fic.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Dark and angsty product of my rather bizarre mind with some twisted!Edge for good measure.  
> I must thank leogryffin, susie_sue and lostmyillusions for their support on this fic.

She flips the lid of the lighter open; puts the cigarette between her scarlet lips and lights it.    
  
He keeps his eyes on the amber glow, follows its path in the air. To look at her – to concentrate on that full mouth – would be to surrender. He knows his weaknesses. So does she.    
  
Somewhere at the back of his mind lurks the fear that he will never have this again. Feeling softness adorn his neck, watching vowels become erotic surrounded by that alluring shade of red. Discovering the remnants on his shirt in the morning and smiling at the accompanying memories.   
  
It’s silly to worry about that, but he does. Because he likes it, very much. And men don’t wear lipstick.   
  
“So, every weekend when you’re home. Any weekend when you’re not.” She squints at him; the evening sunlight, low on the hills, is in her eyes. He’d offer her the sunglasses in his pocket but they don’t belong to him. They are a token of remembrance, just in case he forgot.   
  
_“She wants to meet me. To discuss the kids.”_  Oh, that had been awkward, the notching pain of anxiety and anticipation in his stomach matched in the tone of the reply.   
  
_“Oh. When?”_   
  
_“Tonight.”_  A pause, the kind which rings in your ears.  _“You know I have to go, right? I mean, it’s my kids.”_   
  
A nod, face turned away, shrug following.  _“Of course. I’ll see you later.”_  The shades had been given with a twisted sort of smile that meant  _if you fuck her I’ll try to forgive you._   
  
No. He’s not going to fuck her. That’s why his full attention is on the glowing embers, the ash falling from the end.    
  
“That’s fine,” he hears himself say, his voice as if it’s an echo in his own ears. “Tour soon. You can all visit.” It’s easy to place that idea in the future. Maybe things will be okay by then. He doesn’t think it foolish to hope.   
  
Nothing more of consequence is said. There is no asking after family, wondering how the album is doing, complimenting each other’s clothes. Discomfort descends like a shroud until he’s had enough. He scrapes back his chair, fishes out notes from his jeans, tosses the money onto the table just in time to see the cigarette being laid to rest in the ashtray.   
  
The intact end is laced with red, and he swallows hard.   
  
*****   
  
It’s all he can think of.   
  
The red. Deep, dark, teasing, playful, marking.   
  
Clutching the small tube, he ascends the stairs, failing to calm his erratic breathing. He pauses at the bedroom door before going inside.   
  
It’s dimly lit, one struggling lamp in the corner by the bed, which is, to his contentment, occupied.   
  
“How did it go?” Malice is kept to a bare minimum, yet still it shows, filtering through the harmless words.   
  
“Fine.” He removes his jacket, kicks off his shoes.    
  
“Fine.” It’s bounced back at him, weighed down with suspicion. A thrill runs through him, under his skin.    
  
He undresses and gets into bed, straddling, one hand clutching the weapon, the other steadying, holding in place. “Let me,” he says, caught between pleading and ordering. The response is a questioning quirk of the eyebrows, a furrowing of the brow, and that’s enough for him.    
  
“Just… red.” A smear across the bottom lip, another along the top. “Red.”   
  
“Wh… What’s this about?” The nonchalance is fake, but fortunately his mind believes it to be real.    
  
He attacks, his lips finally meeting the blaze of colour. His kiss is rough and demanding, smearing the cosmetic and mixing it with newly-drawn blood. His hands travel under, his fingers force inside, the resulting cry of pain is music to his ears.    
  
Red. It’s all he sees as he scratches and bites, drawing extra shades. The pleading in his ear sounds red, too, and it makes him ache with pure need.    
  
Grabbing, hissing, tugging, probing, shoving. When he’s all the way in, buried deep, he knows it has to hurt, realises this will be red too, red, inside, outside, all over. It cures his desperate longing and makes him feel alive, less like his heart is breaking.    
  
“Please, not like this,” can be heard somewhere nearby, cracked and pained, but it’s not on his radar. In the pit of his stomach he knows this isn’t what he should be doing. It’ll ruin everything. He’ll wish he’d never.    
  
When he comes, he inflicts another bruising kiss, the taste of salty tears meeting his tongue.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, on the comedown, barely able to look at what he’s done, the stains and the bites. “So sorry. It’s, you’re, red.”   
  
“It’s okay.” Forgiving, passionate, understanding despite what he’s done. It’s almost impossible to believe someone loves him so much. And it’s okay.   
  
But it’s not okay. He knows it’s not.    
  
Because red will fade but his heart remains shattered.


End file.
